


Tales from the Vault: Day 10

by ElienRey



Series: Tales from the Vault [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Banter, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11062116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElienRey/pseuds/ElienRey
Summary: The Doctor and Missy make an inadvisable bet.





	Tales from the Vault: Day 10

It took ten days for the restlessness to set in. For a while he had been distracted by all the many necessities that came along with moving into a permanent home with your best friend as a prisoner in the basement. He and Nardole had spent days finishing the setup of his office, positioning the TARDIS, and, most importantly, securing the vault in the underground shelter.

Now, immediate tasks completed and Nardole sent on a grocery run, he sat, back to the vault’s triple reinforced, quantum locked doors, contemplating the next little bit of eternity. It should be a relief, being able to plot a definitive course forward after so many years of random, dangerous wanderings.

One day in front of another, a straight line stretching on and on into millennia. It shouldn’t be so daunting. After all, he’d done it before. He’d spent years trapped here, TARDIS mutilated, mind violated by the Time Lords, stuck with only the thin hope of mercy from a distant, stuffy council. And then there was Christmas, almost a thousand years of war, countless graves piling up in festive churchyards as he’d carried on, growing old but never dying.

This was practically a picnic compared to that. Except that this time he had to actually exert some self control; he was effectively his own jailer now. He let his head thunk back against the vault’s door, examining the high, sturdy ceiling receding into darkness above. _Piece of cake_ , he thought, almost loud enough to drown out the growing panic.

“I know you want to run, Doctor.” A voice through the thick door, barely audible, certainly not to human senses.

“Mistress,” he said, quietly enough that her hearing wasn’t guaranteed.

“I do like it when you use my name,” she purred. “Although, seeing as we’re friends, perhaps a little informality would be nice, Thete.”

“Sure thing, Kosch.” That was the one thing keeping him sane right now. Koschei and Theta, together again after eons of enemy-ship. Of course, one of them was stuck, prisoner in a high security vault, and the other was their jailer. A cruel cosmic trick of fate.

“Hmm, those were the good old days. Such mayhem, such fun. Do you remember that time you bashed a child’s brains in?” The Doctor drew his knees up, clasping his hands loosely around them, mind going carefully blank. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Denial always has been a strong suit of yours.” She chuckled lightly. “Perhaps the next few decades together will show you exactly how similar we are, Doctor.”

“A thousand years is a bit more than a _few_ decades,” said the Doctor, seizing onto what was clearly the most important part of her statement. “About a hundred, I should think.”

“If you last that long, Doctor, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Fine, it’s a bet. Watching you eat that be-fruited monstrosity will definitely make everything worth it.”

“As if you haven’t worn worse on your head. I seem to recall rumors of a fez flying around.”

“Fezzes are cool,” he hedged, “and it didn’t fly. It was perfectly ordinary.”

“You know what I meant,” she said, gratifyingly irritated. “So if you last the full stretch of my, or should I say _our_ sentence, I will consume my headpiece. The question remains, what exactly are you going to be doing when you inevitably lose?”

“Not going to lose,” he sing-songed, wishing he had his guitar to punctuate his own superiority.

“But if you did…” she insisted. “It’s only fair, Doctor.”

“Fine, I’ll-” he hesitated, wondering if he should really encourage this nonsense further. “I’ll write you a song.” That seemed harmless enough, maybe. Missy laughed, loud and long. The Doctor began to get offended. “What? My songs are amazing. I wrote one called Clara; this waitress said it was brilliant.” The laughter abruptly ceased. Excellent.

“Writing me a song isn’t exactly humiliating for you. Although Rassilon knows it should be.”

“There aren’t many things that are humiliating for me,” he pointed out, smug. “I am a picture of elegance and sophistication.”

“I’m fairly sure it’s because you have no shame, Doctor, but if that’s what you have to tell yourself.” He got up with a huff, brushing his trousers off unnecessarily.

“I don’t have to sit here and take being insulted for your entertainment. I’m going to go check on Nardole.” He didn’t move. There was a long pause, finally broken by Missy’s loud, exasperated sigh.

“Doctor, I know you’re still there. You’re radiating _you_ everywhere.”

“We should’ve made the vault telepathy proof,” he complained, waffling. He really did want to check on Nardole, for the most part because he had a sudden craving for crisps. He’d specifically told Nardole to get some.

“You didn’t even bother making it soundproof,” she pointed out.

“How else would you insult me?”

“You could come in here and I could do it to your face.” Her tone was low and sultry, and if the Doctor was better at that sort of thing he probably would’ve picked up on the blatant innuendo. As it was, he thought long and hard about the idea before discarding it as too dangerous for very little reward. In fact, none at all for himself.

“Nice try, Mistress. I’ve seen through your fiendish escape plan.”

“I don’t want to _escape_ , Doctor. Why would I do that when I have you right where I want you?” He could hear the Cheshire cat grin in her voice. A tingle of apprehension went down his spine. “How about this, if I win, you have to let me.”

“Let you what?” The Doctor’s apprehension was turning into a whirlwind of butterflies hiding out in his belly.

“Let me win, of course.”

“The … bet?” Thoroughly confused, he turned towards the vault, as if he could somehow see her and read her expression through the layers of metal.

“Anything. Just one time, I get to win, and you willingly submit yourself as loser.”

“That doesn’t sound fun for me,” he complained. “Or any hapless bystanders.” She huffed in irritation inside the vault.

“Fine, if you insist, no one else gets hurt, terms of the deal.”

“So. To recap.” The Doctor swayed backwards on his heels, unnecessarily nonchalant considering Missy couldn’t see him. “I win, you eat a hat. You win, I have to willingly let you win at something, could be anything!” He waved an arm to encompass all of reality. “Caveat: no one _else_ gets hurt. Meaning I, probably, in this scenario, get hurt.”

“Sounds fair to me. Do we have a bet?”

“Only because I know I’m going to win,” he said, grinning smugly. “I _always_ win.”

“We’ll see,” she said, sounding uncomfortably confident.

“Now I’m really leaving,” said the Doctor, turning on his heel and almost jogging away before the sad, small part of his brain dedicated to common sense could rear its panic stricken head. _Omega’s balls, what have I done?_ he heard it scream, faintly, as he went in search of those crisps.

 


End file.
